


Lions, Tigers, and All the Rest

by buttercups3



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Language, Miles Matheson Appreciation Week
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-18
Updated: 2013-06-18
Packaged: 2017-12-15 10:19:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/848361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buttercups3/pseuds/buttercups3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Miles recovers from the trauma of the Birthday Bombing (depicted in the season finale flashbacks) using his favorite medicine, while Jeremy dispenses solid advice that is (almost) completely lost on his general. Jeremy's p.o.v.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lions, Tigers, and All the Rest

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t know, guys; I just don’t buy the whole Bass killed the Birthday Bomber’s family and somehow that made Miles want to leave the Militia thing. I’m gonna have to fic it out. Here's attempt number one (but not a very serious one).

Miles returns the tenth salute in a row before grumbling and scrubbing at his neck violently with dirty nails. Jeremy and Miles have only made it several blocks from Independence Hall, bombarded as they are by a steady stream of eager Militiamen.

 

“Quick, give me something to hold,” is what Miles mumbles sideways at Jeremy in an apparent attempt to stave off his responsibility to salute them back.

 

Jeremy intones in mock sympathy: “I know: inconvenient, isn’t it? All these damn fools insisting on following decorum first thing in the morning when you’re still hung over.”

 

And, why not attempt to lighten things up? Miles is in a mood, the ‘Rebels’ are probably lurking behind yonder bushes waiting to blow them all to hell, and even Bass has been as volatile as a bitch in heat. While Jeremy was in Bass’s office yesterday, innocently mapping out the positions of their current field units, Bass first bull-whipped a young private for straggling, and then spent the better part of an hour sullenly devouring a glass of ice chips. Jeremy listened to Bass _chomp, chomp, chomping_ until he was at the precipice of his ever-loving sanity. Just as he was about to snap his pencil and use the jagged edge on Bass’s jugular, Bass finally got up and said, ‘Do you miss Dairy Queen? I really liked those Blizzard things.’ Jeremy just shook his head and drew some more stick figures amidst blobby, mock trees. ‘Looks like a kindergarten art project,’ Bass had criticized before crumbling it and tossing it into the trash.

 

Jeremy scratches his inner thigh with his sword, as he reflects on Miles’s and Bass’s recent tailspins. He doesn’t blame them. This development about the Rebels bringing back the United States is stressful: lions and tigers and all that. It confirms their worst fears – that they are not doing a good job as Republic leaders. There is some truth to this, of course – Jeremy sees how their holds on reality (morality?) slip just a little more and a little more each day. It happens when you’re beholden to nobody. For the most part, though, they do good – keep things orderly and safe. Maybe Jeremy can convince them to go for a little sail on the Delaware – feel the breeze on their necks, cut loose. Sure the river’s filled with shit and smells like the inner reaches of an asshole this time of year, but hey, it’s close by. And they need a vacation now, for the good of the Republic.

 

Jeremy’s about to suggest this when Miles gripes:

 

“Don’t scratch yourself with your sword, window licker. You’ll cut off your balls. I hate to think of the world being deprived of the chance at more Bakers. You’re such an integral part of the officer corps,” Miles bites.

 

“Hey, that’s offensive,” Jeremy returns good-naturedly. “I prefer the moniker: ‘specially challenged’.”

 

Miles’s rancid breath has gotten close enough to infect Jeremy’s nostrils, convincing him of the inevitable.

 

“Miles, are you drunk? It’s 9 freaking AM.” Jeremy glances down and widens his eyes. “Oh, man. Did you _piss_ yourself?” Miles has a prominent smear of dark across his crotch.

 

“Wha? No. And it’s water,” Miles assures, shifting around his nuts, which further telegraphs the stain.

 

Jeremy’s a little embarrassed for Miles, saluting all those men in this state. Honestly, though, they’re used to it. Jeremy almost doesn’t remember what Miles is like sober. He thinks the general’s bodily composition at this point might be 80% whiskey and 20% self-loathing. Miles kicks ass at winning though and that’s good enough for the men. Actually, that’s significantly short-changing Miles. He’s as good a general as he is a drunk and that’s saying something.

 

Jeremy beams a little with pride at his general, as he cheerfully responds, “Don’t believe you.”

 

“Well, go ahead and sniff my crotch then, Captain. It’d finally give me a legitimate reason to decapitate you.”

 

“Pissy, today. I didn’t mean I didn’t trust your pants. I meant: you’re drunk.”

 

Miles glares but doesn’t contradict Jeremy. Miles’s normally opaque eyes look lighter than usual in the sun, imbuing them with (the illusion of?) complexity.

 

Jeremy continues, “Look, Miles. I know you got a little blown up for your birthday and that’s bound to put anybody off, but there’s no need to bitch at me. Now do you want to talk about your feelings?”

 

This is an old source of amusement for Jeremy and Bass and perhaps the best way to counteract Melancholy Miles: ask him about his feelings.

 

Miles is just forming the words, “Go fuck yourself,” as Lt. Redding strides up and salutes. Miles refocuses his wrath from Jeremy to Redding.

 

Miles does salute back, because God knows, Redding will hold it forever if he doesn’t, but then Miles demands impatiently, “What _is_ it, Redding?”

 

“Sorry, sir,” Redding stumbles, picking up on the general’s unwelcoming tone, “but you asked me to report to you at oh nine hundred. It took me a few minutes to find you. I apologize, sir.”

 

“Oh right,” Miles softens slightly. “I want you to take a battalion and…” his voice trails off.

 

“Sir?”

 

Miles is looking to the side. His wan cheeks are sweaty, and it dawns on Jeremy what is happening.

 

“Excuse me,” Miles croaks and angles off abruptly.

 

Redding is still standing there, his eyes popping like a frog. “Captain, sir, what am I to do with the battalion?” he asks meekly.

 

“Oh, just use your imagination, Redding!” Jeremy teases. Redding appears to think Jeremy is serious and remains standing there, mouth agape.

 

Jeremy goes after Miles, who has turned a corner and is grasping a rusty handrail, his body slightly hunched.

 

“Leaving orders up to the men’s creativity now, huh? New leadership approach! I like it,” Jeremy announces as he approaches.

 

“I’d back up. I’m gonna hurl,” Miles warns miserably.

 

“Would you like me to hold your hair?”

 

“Sweet but no.” Miles swallows. “I think it’s passed. Where’s Redding?”

 

“He’s where you left him, sir.” All at once, Jeremy feels his patience fading. “Amazing how that works. It’s really something being you, General.”

 

“It’s something all right.” Miles ambles back over to Redding, who somehow insists on saluting him again, as if he’s a rebooting computer. “Seriously Redding?”

 

“Sorry, sir!” Redding apologizes at a complete loss. His salute fades back to his side.

 

Jeremy just shakes his head, amused once more.

 

Miles continues: “I want you to take a battalion – maybe two or three companies, veterans preferred – to shake down Annapolis. See if you can’t find out more about this Rebel situation.”

 

Redding asks, “You want prisoners?”

 

“Well sure, if you can find any evidence against them. Look for the usual – illegal firearms, swords.”

 

“Yes, sir. And sir…?”

 

Miles studies Redding’s face for a moment and grunts, “Mm hm?”

 

“We’re glad to see you up and about again. We…we were concerned for you.”

 

Miles allows himself the smallest trace of a smile. “Ok, Redding, don’t go getting all sentimental on me. It was just a little bomb. It gave me the opportunity for a much needed nap.”

 

Redding grins.

 

“You’re dismissed. Good luck. Bring my men back alive.”

 

“Yes, sir!”

 

Jeremy winces a little at the parting salute, which Miles basically waves off. Jeremy glances sidelong at Miles.

 

“So – you don’t think Bass handled it?” Jeremy asks.

 

“Handled what?”

 

“The Rebels.”

 

“I think Bass _thinks_ he handled it.” Miles takes a seat on a nearby step, and Jeremy sits beside him. “Tell me, Jer – do _you_ think he handled it?

 

Jeremy shrugs, as if he hasn’t given this a tremendous amount of thought in the past few days. “It certainly sent a message, which is what it was intended to do.”

 

“What message was that: Fuck with us and we kill your children?”

 

“Um…” Jeremy scratches his stubble. “How exactly is that message different from what you’ve communicated in the past, Miles? We take people’s children – sometimes forcibly – and re-educate them into the Militia. We dispense with people who violate the rules; a child with a gun is hanged alongside a man, a woman…”

 

“It just is...different, that is” Miles interrupts, seemingly irritated at having the truth laid out before him.

 

“Miles…we do it to preserve the peace. To prevent the terrible anarchy you saved people like me from all those years ago.” It’s an attempt at reassurance. Jeremy chews on his cheek for a moment. “Have you considered that maybe it’s not the situation that changed…but _you_? I mean, you almost died. It wasn’t just Redding who was worried about you.”

 

Miles sniffs. “You think I’ve gone soft because of a little head wound?”

 

“Nah, I’m sure your brains were already pretty sloshy from Iraq. I remember reading somewhere that 20% of Iraq veterans came back with a head trauma or two.”

 

“Comforting.”

 

“So, I’m just saying, this explosion probably just hastened you a little closer to the edge.”

 

“The edge?”

 

Jeremy puts his hand on Miles’s arm with a very serious expression on his face.

 

“Don’t touch. Still fragile,” Miles objects, shaking him off.

 

“The edge…of glory.”

 

Miles’s face melts into pure disgust.

 

“Not a Gaga fan?”

 

Miles rolls his eyes.

 

Jeremy has a sudden idea. “Maybe it’s love that’s changed you!”

 

“Love?”

 

“Nora? Your Latin lover?”

 

“Fuck off. It’s not her.”

 

“Look. Do you really want my advice, Miles?”

 

“Well sure, Jeremy. I’d prefer anything to your fucking blathering.”

 

Jeremy nods. “There’s stuff you could do to deal with the Rebel situation before it gets out of hand. I mean, non-military stuff. Instead of shaking down Annapolis or offing people’s next of kin, you could…”

 

“We could what?”

 

“You could consider initiating an electoral process. Dictatorships make sense in the beginning but…”

 

“That’s what you think this is? Oliver Cromwell?”

 

“No, Miles. That _is_ what this is. Except Cromwell at least pretended he was bringing back Parliament. Come on, man. I know you’re more than just a pretty face. You understand things better than you let on.”

 

“I’ve brought this up with Bass before.”

 

“And?”

 

“And…he says no.”

 

“Right, Miles. Because _Bass_ is the boss of you…”

 

“ _He’s_ president, Jeremy.”

 

“Don’t give me that line of crap. I was there at the beginning. You could have had the throne; you passed. It was a mistake. I told you at the time, and I’ll tell you again. It wasn’t fair to him.”

 

“Not fair to Bass? He has all the power!”

 

“You’re so deep into self-delusion, Miles. I love you like a brother, I do. And it’s time for some tough love.”

 

“You’re saying I should usurp him?”

 

“Miles, you haven’t been listening to me at all.” Jeremy shakes his head and pats Miles on the thigh.


End file.
